


Don't Leave Me Here Alone

by kim47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, but not THAT angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows it isn't real. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Leave Me Here Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [hardticket](http://hardticket.livejournal.com)'s prompt at [derryere's ](http://derryere.livejournal.com)[Happy endings fest](http://derryere.livejournal.com/161798.html); "Sherlock lets John in on the ruse from the beginning and they take off on an adventure." Title ganked from Neil Gaiman.
> 
> Thanks to [kaalee](http://kaalee.livejournal.com) for the awesome beta ♥

*

He knows it's not real, he _knows_ , but that doesn't stop the sick clenching in his stomach and the rapid fire of his pulse as he watches the fall. 

_It's fake, it's a trick, just a magic trick_ , he tells himself, forcing his legs towards the spot where Sherlock (not Sherlock, never Sherlock, not really) landed. He knows what he has to do, and how much is at stake.

“I’m a doctor, let me come through... Let me come through, please...he’s my friend, he’s my friend...”

*

  


The funeral is harder than he imagined it would be. It hurts to see the look on Mrs Hudson's face, the sheer disbelief on Greg's, the shine of tears on Molly’s cheeks, as the priest speaks empty words of comfort and reassurance. Everyone treats him as the grieving widow, offering him gentle hands and shooting him sad looks when they think he can't see them. It's maddening; he wants to shout at them all, make them _stop_ because none of them know the truth, but he bites his lip and accepts their sympathies.

He watches the coffin being lowered into the ground and no matter how many times he tells himself that he knows the truth of it, he can’t dissolve the knot of anxiety in the centre of his chest. He tells himself that it’s a good thing, that it helps him to feel like this. It helps him play his role.

Really, though, it’s just enough for him to know what it would do to him if all of this were real.

*

  


John avoids the flat as much as possible. The space sits differently around him, the balance of the atmosphere disrupted. He toys with the idea of moving out completely, getting a shitty bedsit somewhere. It’s not for long, after all. But he can see Sherlock in his head, frowning at him, demanding that he _stick to the plan, John, you have to. Whatever it is you want to do, don't. Do only as we've agreed._ So he stays, but he spends as little time there as he can.

Instead he wanders. London is familiar to him now in a way that it never was before, despite the previous years he’s spent here. It’s just another thing he owes Sherlock. When he gets tired, he feeds the ducks in St. James’s Park, drinking coffee from the little coffee shop Sherlock loved. He knows it's the picture of a broken, aimless man.

When he can’t avoid it, he sees people. Harry makes him have lunch with her sometimes, and Molly won’t stop bringing him cakes. She gives him earnest, soul-deep looks that make his skin prickle. It often feels like she’s trying to communicate telepathically, but he can never make out what she’s trying to say. 

It’s hardest to pretend with Greg. He makes John come out to the pub with him once a week, and he’s the only person who doesn’t treat John like a fragile thing. John can see what he’s doing, how hard he tries to be a good, supportive friend to John. But he sees Greg’s sorrow, too, the weight on his shoulders, and he longs to reach out, to comfort Greg just as Greg tries to comfort him. It’s easy to forget that what’s happening goes beyond him and Sherlock, that there are other people hurting. He can’t say anything -- he won’t -- but his chest feels a little heavier for it.

*

  


John dreams.

He dreams about the fall, mostly. Sometimes it feels endless, Sherlock falling forever, and sometimes there's so much more blood than there should be. It runs into the cracks on the pavement, and suddenly it’s the pavement outside there flat and the blood is _everywhere_. He wakes up gasping and sweating, and it takes him nearly a full minute to remember that it’s not real and it didn’t happen like that. Sherlock’s fine, he’s not dead.

Once, it's not so much a dream, but a memory. 

They’re in Sherlock’s room, sitting side-by-side on the bed. They climbed in the back window, Sherlock certain there was at least one police car watching the front, and John marvelled not for the first time at this ridiculous thing that his life had become. Sherlock is rubbing the red, sore skin at his wrist. "I can't ask you to do this," he says quietly, still in a way that makes John uncomfortable. John stares at his shoes. They're scuffed and wet from the back alleys and damp streets.

"You're not," John says simply. "I'm offering." 

Sherlock glances sideways at him, eyebrow raised, the beginnings of a smile on his face. John huffs.

"Okay, I'm demanding," he corrects himself.

Sherlock does laugh then, and John can't help but join in. It's a little strained, and John knows they're both feeling the weight of what's closing in on them, but it feels good, light in a way that John hasn't felt in months. Not since Moriarty waltzed into the Tower of London and splintered his life right down the middle.

"You'll need to be perfect," Sherlock says, later, when they've made plans, and back-up plans, and come to an agreement. "The whole time, wherever you are. I mean it, John, you can't let anyone know, even suspect. Even when you're at home, you can't be certain who's watching."

"I know, Sherlock. I can do it. Trust me." John tries not to let frustration creep into his voice. He knows what's at stake; he knows that it won't be easy. But it's worth doing, it's _everything_ , and he simply won't allow himself to fail.

Sherlock's silent for a moment, his gaze heavy on John's face. It feels uncomfortably intimate, like Sherlock's sorting out all the component parts of him and judging his worthiness. Then he nods.

"I do."

Sherlock's hand sliding along his jaw is not as much of a surprise as perhaps it should be. Nor is the brush of his thumb against John’s bottom lip, or the press of his mouth against John's, not insistent or demanding, just a warm, glad meeting of lips. 

Later, they’ll dress quietly and slip out the way they came in, minds clear and steps purposeful, battle-ready, but for now John cups the back of Sherlock’s neck to draw him closer, opens his mouth into the kiss, and lets himself get lost.

*

  


Today is a bad day.

It's been raining all week, and at the quiet insistence of Greg (heavily influenced, he suspects, by Mrs Hudson), he has an appointment with Ella. He spends an awful hour alternating between sullen silence and heavy, stilted words. John leaves her office feeling more exhausted than he has since the times when nightmares of Afghanistan plagued him. 

He doesn't have an umbrella, and it's a ten minute walk to the nearest Tube station. He has to stand all the way home, too, his shoulder aching and his leg twinging no matter how much he glares at it. It's not until he's stomping up the stairs to the flat that he remembers he promised Greg he'd have a drink with him after work.

"Fuck," John mutters under his breath, paused on the landing. He thinks about texting Greg to cancel, but he knows that that will simply make Greg worry about him even more, possibly resulting in a spontaneous visit to 221b and a hushed conversation with Mrs Hudson about how John's dealing with his grief, and whether he oughtn’t see Ella more often?

He's late to the pub, and soaked through. It's too noisy, and even with a beer clutched tight in his hand, it's not hard for John to fake a bad mood. Greg just lets him sit in silence, eyes fixed on the television screen, only occasionally making a desultory comment. John is intensely grateful for it.

By the time he reaches home that night, he wants to scream. He’s tightly wound, he wants to punch something so badly his hands are shaking. It takes him three tries to unlock the door.

The silence of the front hall drains all the fight out of him He slumps back against the street door, his face in his hands, his tiredness bone-deep. He misses Sherlock so badly it's a physical pain, and all the knowledge that he's not dead, that he's _waiting_ for John, does nothing to erase it. He can feel the sob climbing his throat, and the sting of salt in his eyes, and any second now he's going to lose it...

"John, dear?"

He hastily brushes the back of his hand across his eyes and straightens his back just as Mrs Hudson comes out into the hall. He tries to smile, but something of his emotions must show in his face, because her face falls and she suddenly looks much older, much sadder.

"Cup of tea?" she offers gently, and fuck, John is so tired of watching people trying to be strong for him, people who are hurting themselves. Thirteen more days, he tells himself. Just thirteen. 

He quietly follows Mrs Hudson into her kitchen and lets her fuss over him.

*

  


"Are you sure?" Greg asks him. He’s leaning forward in his seat, elbows braced on his desk, pen dangling forgotten from his fingers.

"God, yeah, I just..." John swallows and closes his eyes for a long moment. "I need to get out of here. Out of London. It feels like I'm going mad."

"I can understand that," Greg replies, nodding, his expression sad.

"Everywhere I go, I see something that reminds me of him," John says quietly, and he doesn't even have to fake the way his voice breaks there, because it's all true. "I need a change. Mycroft's helping me out," he adds. Even with the money Sherlock “left” him, there’s no way he could afford this on his own. He takes a vindictive pleasure in using Mycroft's money, too. He still hasn't forgiven his betrayal.

"When are you leaving?" 

"Tomorrow." _Tomorrow_ , Christ, just saying the word aloud makes him feel lighter. It’s been two months and three days and it’s been a week longer than Sherlock had insisted on, just to be safe. John knows he couldn’t take it much longer. “I just came to say goodbye. And thank you.”

Greg shakes his hand and grips his shoulder when he leaves, urging him to keep in touch, and John feels a small pang of regret for what he’s doing. 

He bumps into Molly on the way out, quite literally.

"I hear you're leaving, then?" she asks, once they’ve disentangled themselves. Her eyes are curiously keen, searching his face, and not for the first time, John wonders. Sherlock had been insistent that he not know anything more than he absolutely has to, but John knows at least one other person has to be in on the secret, and someone who worked at Bart's would be ideal...

"Yeah, have to get out of London for a bit," he says. She nods, sympathetic, and to his surprise, she steps closer and hugs him gently. 

"Be safe," she tells him. Her voice is serious, and John finally understands what she’s been trying to tell him.

“I will,” he says, and she smiles.

*

  


Stockholm is fucking freezing for August.

Sherlock, John contemplates, and not for the first time, has a love for the dramatic. Which is why John is standing in a (gorgeous, but that’s beside the point) park by a river in Sweden at midnight, wishing he was wearing a warmer jacket. It took him a long time to find the park, too, between the serious shortage of people to ask for directions at this time of night and his inability to speak more than a handful of words in Swedish.

He fists his hands in his pockets and doesn't try to quash his irritation. Irritation is good; irritation is manageable. If he lets himself think about the fact that any minute now he's going to see Sherlock, fuck, who was standing on the roof of St. Bart’s, ready to jump, the last time John saw him, he's certain he's going to do something embarrassing.

It's embarrassing that, in the end, Sherlock gets the jump on him. John walks in aimless circles, too jittery to stand still, and doesn't notice Sherlock's approach until he hears a huff of laughter behind him. And, bloody hell, he's right there, _Sherlock_ , and the first thing John feels is crushing, overwhelming relief, like somehow he'd never been a hundred percent _sure_ that Sherlock was alive until the man himself was standing here in front of him. 

Sherlock looks different. His hair's short, much shorter than John's ever seen it, and he's got brown contact lenses in. He's dressed in well-worn jeans and a short coat over a button-up shirt; without his well-cut suits and coat, he looks...smaller, younger. John can tell at a glance that he’s not been eating well, or sleeping much. The circles under his eyes are so dark the skin looks bruised, and even with the coat on, John can tell he’s lost weight.

"John." Christ, his voice, John doesn’t know why he’s so shocked that it’s exactly the same, and he’s starting to feel a little lightheaded. 

"You look awful," John manages, his tone admirably conversational, even though his heart is pounding fit to burst through his ribs. 

Sherlock snorts, and takes a step forward, and then they're kissing, deep, long, slow kisses that John has ached for since that first night, since long before then. Sherlock wraps an arm around John's waist and pulls him in tight against his body, John feels missed, needed, _necessary_.

It’s ridiculous, how quickly everything feels right again.

He threads his fingers through Sherlock's disconcertingly short hair and breaks the kiss with a laugh when he feels Sherlock's hand sliding over his arse. He hasn’t laughed in far too long.

"Public," he mutters against Sherlock's lips, even though there's absolutely no one else here and it's a new moon, too dark to see much.

"Don't care," Sherlock replies, but he removes his hands and, after kissing John once more (missing his lips but catching the corner of his mouth, making John's stomach flutter unexpectedly), grabs his hand and they’re off.

*

  


John comes awake suddenly, panicking at the unfamiliar surroundings. The sunlight coming through the window is too weak, the air smells different and it takes him a moment to recover his equilibrium. When he does, he also becomes aware of the heat at his back and the hand pressed against his stomach.

"Are you finally awake then?" Sherlock's voice is deeper in the morning, sleep-rough, and after two months of deprivation, it sends a shiver of _something_ through John's skin.

"Shut up," he mumbles into his pillow, tongue still heavy with sleep. “ ‘m tired. Was a tiring time.”

Sherlock simply grunts, and then the warmth against John's back is shifting, moving, and no, that's not okay. He rolls over onto his back, squinting up at Sherlock in the morning light. 

It's still strange to be seeing him, real and solid, slumped against the headboard, fumbling with a cigarette lighter.

John stares for a long moment, watching as Sherlock tilts his head back to exhale, studying the line of his throat and the curve of his lips. Sherlock ignores him, attention focused on the phone in his other hand, but John can tell from the faint colour of his cheeks that he's enjoying John's gaze. John reaches up and plucks the cigarette from his fingers, then sits up and slides into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock doesn't even look surprised.

"Rule one," he announces. "No smoking in bed."

“That’s a stupid rule,” Sherlock says immediately. Then his nose wrinkles and John very firmly resists thinking that it’s adorable. “There are _rules_? God, there’s a reason I stay away from romantic entanglements.”

John would be offended, but it’s hard to work up the necessary ire when he’s sitting in Sherlock’s lap with first hand evidence of Sherlock’s enjoyment of the situation. 

“No smoking in bed,” he repeats. “Or at all if you want me to kiss you,” he adds, and sure enough, Sherlock glares at him. It quickly transforms into a smirk, however, and before John can quite figure out what’s happening, Sherlock’s mouth is on his and John is being kissed more thoroughly than he has been in years.

He’s just getting into it, he’s got an arm around Sherlock’s neck and a hand skimming up and down his side when Sherlock pulls back and he’s treated to a class-A smug Sherlock smile.

“Yes, alright, fine, you’ve made your point,” John manages to pant out.

“Yes, I thought I made quite an elegant argument,” Sherlock says, and he’s still smirking, but John’s pleased to hear that he’s a little breathless himself. John rolls his hips a little, even more pleased at the tiny gasp Sherlock lets slip.

“Rule two,” he says, and before Sherlock can protest he leans forward so Sherlock can feel the words against his lips. “Finish what you start.”

In under three seconds, John finds himself on his back, Sherlock braced over him. The position’s better for his knees, at least, and he loves the feeling of Sherlock on top of him, caging him in with his body.

“Now that,” Sherlock says, and he lowers his lips to John’s collar bone and bites gently, then starts to kiss his way down John’s chest, “that is a rule I can get behind.”

*

  


"It's going to be difficult," Sherlock says suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence they’ve lain in since cleaning up and catching their breath. He's staring at the ceiling, his eyes distant, and it’s clear he’s thinking about what comes next, about the weeks and months ahead. John is on his side, facing him, fingers clasped lightly around Sherlock’s wrist. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse under his fingertips. It’s slightly elevated, but steady. Good. There.

Of course the next however-long-it-takes is going to be hard and dangerous and that there's no guarantee that they're going to both come out of it alive. But here, in bed with Sherlock in the middle of the day, in a tiny flat a thousand miles away from where they started, he’s glad to be happy while he can be.

“I know,” he says. “I don’t care.”


End file.
